


A Little Piece of Home

by jadey36



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8761798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadey36/pseuds/jadey36
Summary: Robin decides that Much deserves a gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote many moons ago for a fan site challenge. I had to incorporate the words: Advent candle; Bethlehem; I have never seen anything like that before in my life!; goodwill; Robin Hood and eight maids-a-milking. As you can imagine, I had to get a little creative!

‘Much!’ Robin chides. ‘I said lay some more wood on the fire, not burn the entire camp down.’

‘Sorry, master.’ 

Much drops the enormous branch he is about to toss onto the fire and sits, crossing his arms and legs, a pout on his face.

‘What is it?’ Robin asks, doing his best to sound kindly though he feels far from it. It has been another long and wearisome day of relentless sun and sandflies and marching. All Robin wants to do is rest a while, in front of a warming fire, before it starts all over again tomorrow. 

‘What is what?’

‘It. The reason you’re in such a grump this evening. And don’t tell me it’s the poxy weather, the poxy sand or the poxy food. We’ve been in the Holy Land long enough now for you to have gotten used to all those things.’

Much jabs a stick into the fire, sending up a scattering of grey ash and glowing red sparks.  ‘None of those,’ he says, shaking his head.  

‘What then?’ Robin blows warm breaths into his cupped hands, trying to bring his frozen fingers to life.

‘Do you know what the date is?’ Much asks.

‘No idea. Only that it is the month of December. Why do you ask?’

‘I know the date,’ Much declares. ‘I heard two of the king’s guards talking about it after you left his tent earlier. It’s the fourth Sunday of Advent, nearly Christ’s Mass.’

‘And?’

‘And we should not be here.’

‘Where should we be, then, if not here fighting to protect our faith and our king?’

‘We should be at home, with our loved ones. By being at home, I mean at Locksley. And by loved ones, I mean you with Marian because I don’t have any loved ones, except you of course. Not that I mean that I love you in the way—’

‘Much.’

‘Sorry, master. Sometimes I talk too much, I know. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Robin grips the edges of his heavy cloak, pulls his tightly across his chest. Even a blazing fire cannot keep the chill from his bones on these cold desert nights.

‘It’s all right. And you’re right, of course. We should be home, in England.’

‘But you just said—’

‘I just said we should be fighting for our faith and our king. But if you want the truth, I’m not certain I believe in either of those things any more. Not since . . .’ Robin shakes his head, stares into the depths of the fire.

Much knows what Robin is thinking about: Saladin’s men, the garrison at Acre, thousands of them, executed at the command of Richard the Lionheart. Much shivers despite sitting dangerously close to the fire.

‘Do you remember,’ Much says, hesitating when he eyes Robin. 

Robin is staring at the star-filled night sky. There is a glitter in his eyes that Much suspects has nothing to do with the firelight and everything to do with Robin battling with his conscience over the infidels’ deaths, many by his own hand. 

‘Remember what?’ Robin vigorously rubs his hands over the flames, cursing as he catches the calluses on his bow fingers. 

‘Do you remember how Father Michael gave you the job of lighting the **Advent candle** every day?’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Robin smiles, recalling the day he tried to light one of the candles by shooting a flaming arrow at it and almost ended up burning Locksley church to the ground. 

‘And that beautiful wooden model that Dan Scarlett carved,’ Much says, ‘of the infant Christ asleep in his cradle, in **Bethlehem,** and the camels, and the Wise Men?’

‘I wonder what Dan’s doing now?’ Robin muses. 

‘Probably teaching his sons how to be good with wood,’ Much says, digging his fire poking stick into the ground.

‘We should go to bed.’ Robin stands and stretches. ‘We have another long day of marching ahead of us.’ 

‘Marching,’ Much grumbles, rising. ‘I hate marching. And fighting. I hate that too. In fact, I hate everything about this place – the poxy heat, and the poxy sand, and the—’

‘Much!’

‘Sorry. It’s just we’ve been here so long and it doesn’t look as if we’ll ever get to see Jerusalem.’

‘We will, Much. Have faith. Now, go to bed.’

Robin watches Much enter their tent. He knows his manservant will not go to sleep until Robin lies on the pallet next to him, that he will polish Robin’s sword and clean his mail and boots while waiting for his liege lord to close his tired eyes.

Robin is surprised, therefore, when he finds Much asleep, mail still clutched in his right hand, a cloth in his left. Looking heavenwards, Robin whispers a quiet, ‘Thank you.’  He looks longingly at his pillow, knows he only has a handful of hours before he must don his mail and weapons, ready to do the king’s bidding.

 

Yawning, Much scurries after his master, wondering why they are leaving the king’s camp when they should be preparing for the coming day’s march. Robin was in one of his don’t ask any questions moods and had simply told Much to pull the hood of his cloak over his head and to be silent.

Now, some distance from the camp, Robin throws off his hood and indicates Much to do likewise.

‘What are we doing?’ Much asks. ‘And what’s with the hoods?’

‘I didn’t want anyone knowing it was me, that’s all,’ Robin explains. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting with the king this morning, but I had something I wanted to show you first.’

‘Something more important than the king?’

‘ _Someone_ more important than the king.’

‘Who?’

‘You, my friend.’

‘Me? Surely not. I am just a servant. I am just—’

‘You are not _just_ anything,’ Robin retorts. ‘You are my friend, possibly my one true friend in this godforsaken place. Last night, while we were talking, you reminded me of that.  You also reminded me that I have been remiss in telling you so. I am not always good with words I know, so . . .’

Robin points. On a distant hill is a church.

‘Come on,’ he urges, before Much is even able to open his mouth.

Sighing, Much sprints after his master. 

 

After the glare of the desert, the inside of the church is full of shadows and indistinct shapes and it takes the two men a moment to adjust their eyes to the gloom.  

‘Here.’

Robin reaches inside his cloak and pulls out a candle. He hands it to Much. Much removes his gloves and accepts the candle, rolling the stick of tallow between his chapped, battle weary fingers. ‘What’s this for?’

‘Well, it’s not to eat, you dope. Go on then.’ Robin waves Much towards the church’s small altar. While Much is fixing the candle in place, Robin retrieves two pieces of flint from a leather pouch laced to his knife-belt. 

By the time Much has managed to make the candle stay upright, Robin has a flaming arrow strung on his bow.

Much turns around. ‘No, master, surely not.’ 

‘I can do it,’ Robin says, easing the bowstring back to his right ear. 

‘Robin,’ Much warns, raising his arms and stepping into the arrow’s path. ‘This is madness. You’ll burn the church down, and it won’t just be Father Michael after you this time, but Saladin’s men, and—’

‘It was a joke, Much,’ Robin says with a grin. He blows out the flame and lowers his bow. ‘I have no intention of incurring the wrath of Saladin’s men, even though this is the season of **goodwill**.’

‘Then what—’

‘This.’ Robin takes hold of Much’s arm and leads him towards the back of the church. 

Much stares and stares, finally splutters, **‘I have never seen anything like that before in my life!’**

Robin shrugs. ‘I’ll admit my carving is nowhere near as good as Dan’s but—’

‘What,’ Much says, pointing, ‘are they meant to be?’ 

‘Camels,’ Robin replies defensively. ‘And Wise Men.’

‘They look more like cows. And weren’t there only meant to be three Wise Men?’

‘The first ones went wrong, all right,’ Robin snaps. ‘So I ended up with eight. No point in wasting them.’

**‘Eight maids-a-milking** cows,’ Much says with a snort.

‘Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me.’ Robin turns on his heel, strides towards the church door.

‘Master, wait! I didn’t mean to laugh. I am touched, honestly.’ Much kneels down in front of the crude carvings. ‘You must have been up half the night making this.’

‘Try all night,’ Robin says returning to the altar and rubbing his watering eyes. 

Still on his knees, Much turns to face Robin, who has knelt beside him. ‘You did this for me?’

Robin nods.

‘Because of what I said last night?’

Robin smiles. ‘A little piece of home.’

Much picks up one of the Wise Men, turns the misshapen piece of wood around and around. ‘I don’t know what to say, other than thank you and . . . I love you, and . . .’

‘We’re marching today, remember?’ Robin says, uncomfortable with Much’s tears, close to tears himself. ‘So, we’d better hurry back before anyone realises we’re missing.’ 

‘Can I light the candle first?’

‘Of course.’

Robin makes another flame and Much lights the candle.

Head bowed, Much mumbles, ‘Dear Lord. Please deliver us soon from this horrible, horrible place. Please let us go home as soon as possible, away from all this poxy—’ Robin coughs. ‘Away from all this . . . horribleness,’ Much continues. ‘Back to Locksley, back to Sherwood, back to proper food and—’

‘We have to go,’ Robin says.

Much gets to his feet. 

Donning their hoods, the two men check the way is clear of the enemy and then slip out of the church.

‘We must make sure no one sees us,’ Much says, as they near the king’s camp, ‘or you might find yourself with a new name.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Robin of the Hood.  **Robin Hood** for short.’

‘Stupid name,’ Robin mumbles. 

Back inside their tent, Much wordlessly helps Robin put on his mail, surcoat and weapons.  As they push back the tent flaps and step out into what is going to be another fiercely hot day, Robin places a hand on Much’s shoulder. 

‘We _will_ go home, my friend, very soon. I promise. Even if I have to get stabbed and take a fever to do so.’

‘What I said last night,’ Much says, eyes widening at the thought of his beloved master and friend in pain. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t—’

‘It’s a joke, Much. A joke.’

‘You should not joke of such things,’ Much says, wagging a finger at Robin. ‘And you should also stick to archery instead of wood carving,’ he calls as Robin strides away. 

Robin merely waves over his shoulder, making for the king’s tent. 

When his master is several paces distant, Much shoves a hand inside his tunic and pulls out the tiny carved camel. Even in the full light of day, it still looks like a cow. Much presses the piece of wood to his lips and kisses it. ‘Keep him safe,’ he whispers. ‘And take us home.’ 

‘Much!’ Robin shouts.

‘Coming, master.’ 

Much tucks the carving back inside his shirt and runs to catch up with Robin.

**Author's Note:**

> Best wishes for the holiday season!


End file.
